


Mean, Scary Bastard

by apprenticeofcups



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Amputated Limbs, Animals, Betrayal, Bottom Lucio (The Arcana), Canis - Freeform, Canis the Apprentice, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, F/M, First Meetings, Forced Infection, Foreplay, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Male Apprentice (The Arcana), Meet-Cute, Mentioned Asra (The Arcana), Mild Blood, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, Post-Coital, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Red Plague (The Arcana), Scars, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Temper Tantrums, Top Nadia (The Arcana)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-11-18 13:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18121445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apprenticeofcups/pseuds/apprenticeofcups
Summary: Commission for CanisTheApprentice - Canis and Lucio courting (pun absolutely intended) before in-game events.  From Canis' first day as a handler for the Count's menagerie of white animals to the peak of the Red Plague - is the Count going soft, or is his dog trainer just...special?





	1. Chapter 1

             “Meleager!”

             The powder-white peacock didn’t respond, tear-assing across the Palace lawn with its head down, ruby-studded collar bouncing around its neck.

             Despite the bird’s head start, Canis was gaining on it, vaulting over a flower bed to head it off as it beelined for the stables. “Dad!”

             Looking up from the horses’ exercise schedule, Scorpius clocked the escaped bird immediately, dropping his clipboard and pulling a deep green saddle blanket from a stack behind the door.

             Meleager’s speedy, tail-encumbered waddle took a sharp turn in the stable yard, his course changing ninety degrees toward the tracks, where nobles in riding gear and their mounts churned up chunks of dirt with heavy, pounding hooves. Before he could get himself minced, though, Scorpius tossed the blanket over the great white bird, just in time for Canis to dive, catching and rolling with the bundle of peacock.

             Canis sat up, grey dust clinging to his tight black pants while the captured peacock let out a confused honk. “Thanks,” he panted, hastily adjusting the blanket to free Meleager’s head.

             “Nicely done.” Scorpius reached down to help him up. “I see your first day’s been relatively calm.”

             “Oh, you know.” Scritching Meleager’s soft albino feathers, Canis smiled. “Just wrangling five cranky birds with no leashes.”

             “I swear, your mother is the only non-peacock they’ve ever liked.”

             “Aw, we have fun don’t we?” he cooed, adjusting his hold when Meleager tried to bite his finger. “You just don’t like when Bellerophon gets attention and you don’t.”

             The hard galloping of hooves from up the hill made them both look up, a few nobles’ horses balking away from the gleaming white Arabian thundering down the slope, carrying the Count back from the jumping course, a firey streak of red riding jacket and gold plates flashing in the sun. Glistening with sweat, the horse slowed to a walk once it sighted the stable, jerking the Count forward on its back. Scowling, he unhooked the ivory-handled riding crop and gave it a flip in his hand, the gilded leather loop throwing off sparks. Scorpius had a split second to try and grab Canis’ hand before the leather connected with the horse’s side.

_Krak_.

             Canis’ head jerked up, his jaw clenching. He shoved the swaddled peacock at his father and stomped onto the track toward the brilliant white horse that had hastily picked up to a tired canter.

             “Canis—!” Weighed down by a squirming bird, Scorpius could only watch in distress as the Arabian let out a nervous whinny, shying away from Canis’ approach.

             In one good swipe, Canis snatched the reins from the Count’s metal hand, carefully and expertly bringing the horse to a stop. The Count’s lip curled, calligraphic eyebrows furrowing as he opened his mouth to snarl, but before he could get a word out, Canis snapped, “ _What_  is wrong with you?”

             The Count dismounted, dropping to the mulched dirt inches away from him. “Oh, I think you’d like to try that again.”

             “You ought to be ashamed.” Thrusting his chin in the Count’s face, Canis guided the horse behind him without looking, putting himself between the nervous-looking animal and the fiercer-looking one. “How would you like it if someone whipped you like that?”

             Staring piercingly into his eyes, the Count’s mouth twitched, then split in a crooked grin, baring his teeth. His cold metal fingers wrapped around Canis’ wrist, twisting up his free hand and pressing the smooth ivory handle into his palm. Slowly closing Canis’ fingers over the riding crop, he let out a low, teasing laugh. He released Canis’ hand and gestured meaningfully to the swatch of bare chest between the crimson lapels of his riding jacket. “Let’s find out.”

             A few of the onlooking nobles chuckled. Canis only stared at him, scowling, grip tight around the ivory handle. The Count smirked at him triumphantly, one eyebrow cocked, metal hand resting on his hip. In the stable yard, his father finally let out his breath.

_Krak_.

             The nobles gasped in chorus. Lucio’s head snapped to one side, the gold-tipped leather biting into his cheek with a white-hot stinging. He felt over the skin already beginning to pink up, throbbing and tender. His teeth had cut open the inside of his mouth from the impact. He ran his tongue over the sharp tang of blood, letting it well up and run out the corner of his mouth. More gasps and quietly-scandalized cries—the other riders tried to sneak their mounts back into the stables. The horse trainer swayed, clinging to the stable door to steady himself as all the blood drained from his face and the peacock escaped from his arms.

             Canis stared defiantly up at him, shiny-glossed lips in a hard pout. Red-faced, though not from embarrassment, the open shoulders and plunging neckline of his deep red blouse showed off more angry blush under splashes of freckles. He only broke Lucio’s gaze once, eyes flicking down to the blood staining his lips, before staring him down again, brilliant amber eyes like burning medallions.

             Lucio spat blood into the dirt, turning back to face him. “By all means.” He grinned, wincing at how it made his cheek smart. “How would  _you_  discipline her?”

             “I wouldn’t  _punish_  her,” Canis retorted, shoving the riding crop into his chest. “And I certainly wouldn’t use  _that_.”

             Catching the riding crop in both hands, Lucio looked him dead in the eye and snapped it in half, tossing the splinters into the dirt. “Show me.”

-

             The whispers made their way around the Palace in no time, the legend of the upstart animal trainer and his mysterious escape from the Count’s wrath. To the servants, it was mere beginner’s luck:

             “Well, it’s only his first day.”

             “He certainly won’t get away with it again.”

             “Sure milord will save the real punishment for when he’s thought of something truly horrible.”

             To the nobility, it was more of a puzzle:

             “Surely he didn’t strike him. That’s only an exaggeration.”

             “His Excellency would never hand over an antique riding crop to a servant. I’d believe he broke it, though.”

             Some wrote it off:

             “It was a stunt. Count Lucio staged it to keep the help in line.”

             Others drew more dangerous conclusions.

             “His Excellency is a warrior first. He attacks weakness, but he respects strength.” The Prefect of Vesuvia’s Fourth District had fought in one battle before a previously-undiscovered heart condition sent him limping into politics. He swirled the greenish-brown spirit in his glass, tasted it, and reached for the ice pick to add a few more chips. “His ‘rage’ we’re all so familiar with is the only way he knows how to rule, but he welcomes a good challenge.”

             “Your insights into the Count’s motivations are baseless, Crescentius.” Valerius rolled his eyes, refilling his wine from a crystal decanter. “However charmingly imaginative.”

             “With all due respect, Consul, it does the Count a disservice to treat him as an enigma.” Prefect Crescentius took a sip of herb-infused whiskey. “If you ask me, he’d seem a much more reasonable man if he had a Court strong enough to push back once in a while.”

             The gold-framed oak door swung open, a guard in stiff white uniform coming to attention to one side. While they made their announcement, Canis brought in the huge brass birdcage quickly and quietly, setting it on the stand behind the two empty seats heading the table.

             “Count Lucio and Countess Nadia.”

             As they entered, the latter accompanied by a young, white-frocked servant to carry her layered, sapphire-blue skirts just off the ground, the rest of the table rose. The Countess sat first, giving her husband a look to pull out her chair that he categorically ignored, rolling her eyes and dismissing her attaché with a gracious wave. The Count sat beside her, leaning back in his chair and tossing his black-spotted mantle over the arm of the chair, the servant girl scrambling to catch it and carry it off. He waved a hand, and the Court took their seats at once—except the Prefect, who finished his drink before sitting a beat later.

             A dozen pairs of eyes widened, Valerius sinking into his seat and groaning into his glass. To the Count’s left, the stenographer sat waiting, fingers poised over polished-bone keys for a long, silent minute.

             The Count stood, the rest of the table shuffling to do the same before a withering silver look petrified them all in their seats. The Prefect refreshed his drink nonchalantly while the Count’s heels clicked closer on the marble floor, stopping directly behind his chair.

             “What was your name again, Prefect?” Lucio growled, yanking his chair back on two legs. “Contentious?”

             The Prefect swallowed, wiping at the lapels of his brown frock coat where his drink had splashed. “Crescentius, my lord.”

“I like mine better.” Dragging him away from the table and spinning him around, he leaned in, the back of the chair complaining under his metal grip. “Did you forget how to conduct yourself in my Court?”

             “Not at all, my lord.” Crescentius took a sip to steel his nerves, then gave the Count a congenial smile. “Thought I’d grab myself another drink while we were up.”

             “Your timing needs work.” Lucio spat into his drink, smacking the glass to splatter greenish liquor and saliva all over the Prefect’s clean white cascade knot. With a snort, he shoved the Prefect roughly into the table, turning to return to his seat.

             Banging his ribs on the lip of the table, Crescentius winced. “Son of a  _bitch_ —”

             Lucio whirled around, eyes blazing. “What did you just say?”

             Glancing at the wide-eyed animal trainer in the corner, frozen with one hand on the disinterested cockatoo, the Prefect managed to keep his smile. “You didn’t have to shove so hard, my lord.”

             Following his gaze to the corner, Lucio’s eyes settled on Canis before he turned back to the Prefect with a snarl. “Did I knock something loose in that useless head of yours, Pretentious?”

             “Well, the bowing and scraping is nice, I’m sure, but it must seem a tremendous waste of time to a man of action such as yourself.” He shrugged. “I don’t put much energy into the standing, sitting, tedious meetings—they’re not exactly Your Excellency’s milieu.”

             “You certainly seem to enjoy telling me about myself, Infectious.” Cocking an eyebrow, Lucio stalked closer to him, the nobles on either side of the Prefect scooting their chairs away. “So.” Ripping the solid-gold ice pick from the chipped-away block in the center of the table, he pinned the Prefect’s wrist to the tabletop with his golden fingers, twirling the ice pick through the fingers of his other hand like a switchblade. “What am I thinking now?”

             Crying out in surprise, the Prefect struggled fruitlessly to pull away from him. There was a clatter of brass, maroon heels skittering on marble, and a rosy, freckled hand threw itself over the back of his metal hand.

             Holding the Prefect to the table, crushingly tight, Lucio looked up. Holding the garnet-colored bracer he’d stripped off to his chest, Canis panted, “Please don’t, my lord.”

             “It’s too bad you have to see this on your first day.” He snorted, squeezing the Prefect’s wrist until the man yelped. “If only my Court was a little more considerate.”

             “This is my fault,” Canis insisted. “Punish me, Your Excellency.”

             “Step back,” Lucio snapped, “or I will have you removed.”

             He scowled, jaw clenching, and kept his hand in place. “Then have me removed.”

             Without looking, Lucio waved to him with the razor point of the ice pick. The guard came from their post by the door, grabbing Canis’ shoulders and rushing him away.

             “Not too far,” the Count shot over one shoulder, adjusting his hold on the cowering Prefect’s arm. “I’ll be dealing with him next.” While the guard held Canis by the door, he felt the weight of the ice pick experimentally. “Now, Licentious. As I was saying.”

             The Prefect trembled. “M-my lord—”

             Lucio plunged the ice pick through the back of his hand, driving it up to its beveled hilt through the flesh and into the hardwood below. The Prefect screamed in pain, the onlooking nobles cringing. Nadia rolled her eyes, covering her mouth in revulsion.

             Releasing Crescentius’ wrist, Lucio flicked the handle sticking out of his hand, gold-plated finger  _ping_ ing off the real gold. While blood blossomed on the lacquered tabletop, he smoothed out his spotless, gilt white cuffs and waved the guard away. “Feel free to start without me, Nadi.” Ushering Canis into the hall with a firm hand in the middle of his back, he added, “Anyone who touches it gets to swallow it. That includes you, Prefect.” The Prefect’s pained whimpers echoed after him halfway down the corridor, and he grinned.

             Glowering at the marble floor, Canis followed the Count’s lead to an adjacent board room, empty but for the twelve-foot oil painting of the Count and Countess in their wedding dress, looming over the polished ebony table. The weight of the Count’s hand fell off his back, and the door clicked softly shut. Before the Count could speak, he blurted, “I meant no disrespect, my lord, but since you spared me this morning, there’s been talk—” He swallowed. “If your Court is treating you too casually, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have challenged you, and whatever punishment you see fit—”

             “Punishment?” The sharp, liquid black lines around the Count’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Why would I punish you?”

             “I—the Prefect—” Canis frowned. “I struck you.”

             “You did, you fierce little thing.” Something sparkled in the Count’s pale, watery-silver eyes, and he ran his tongue over the inside of his cheek where he’d been cut on his own teeth. “You made me bleed.”

             “I’m sorry, my lord. I—” Hanging his head, Canis sighed. “I didn’t mean to discredit you in front of your Court. It’s my job to keep your animals—”

             “—safe, even from me?” the Count cut in, raising one sculpted eyebrow.

             He cringed, his cheeks starting to feel hot. His parents had warned him about talking back to the Count, and he’d already disobeyed once, but the taunting was testing his resolve, the urge to push back getting harder and harder to ignore. Two clear-polished nails tilted his chin up, filed to points but nowhere near rough enough to prick. The Count leaned in, close enough for Canis to smell hot clove and metal on his breath.

             “You’ve got fire, Canis.”

             Don’t be surprised if he never learns your name, his parents had said. In fact, you don’t  _want_  to be the servant he remembers well enough to call by name.

             He was close enough to feel the heat off the Count’s chest, pale skin framed by white blended silk dripping with more gold than Canis’ family made in a year, awash in the dizzying scent of sweet, earthy resin. The Count’s hand slid up from his chin to cup his cheek, thumb resting below Canis’ lips.

             “I like it.”

             He swallowed.

             “I don’t always,” the Count admitted, leaning back and regarding Canis’ face in his hand like a jeweler inspecting a diamond. “But I like yours.”

             Holding his gaze warily, Canis’ jaw tensed. “Thank you, my lord.”

             “My Court is full of snakes and liars,” the Count informed him, a shadow crossing his face. “They defy me every day in little, annoying ways, just enough to piss me off, not enough for consequences.” He laughed, pinched Canis’ cheek with a mockery of affection and releasing him. “Think they’ll be doing that anymore?”

             The Prefect’s strangled scream echoed in his ears, and Canis’ stomach turned. He shook his head. “No, my lord.”

             “Neither do I.” The Count cracked his neck, grinning. “That little outburst gave one of them the confidence to step  _just_  over that line, and, oh…” He let out a long, indulgent sigh. “Punish you? Sweet thing, I could kiss you.”

             Canis’ eyes widened, cold claws digging skin-crawlingly into the back of his neck.

             The Count straightened, opening the door and holding out his arm.

             Nausea twisting his throat, Canis took the crook of his elbow, cold metal under sleek layers of silk.

             “You can take Camio back to the study.” The Count led him back to the Court, the meeting room falling silent when they entered, arm in arm. “I think he’s had enough excitement for today.”

             With a mumble of assent, the young trainer gathered up the birdcage and fled, his head lowered, cheeks burning. Lucio watched him go, ripping the ice pick out of the now-pale, wavering Prefect’s hand and wiping it clean on his lapel. The Prefect bolted from the room, clutching his hand, a trail of blood droplets chasing him on the marble. Taking his seat at the head of the table with the new stripe of red on his lapel like a badge, Lucio buried the ice pick in the table before him. “What’d I miss?”


	2. Chapter 2

             “You wanted to see me, my lord?”

             The Count in the training gym wasn’t merely a rare sight—it was virtually unheard of. Luckily, thankfully, unlike other areas of the Palace the Count never visited—the kitchens, the servants’ passageways between galleries—there were no vandalized paintings or derisive works of graffiti hanging among the usual red-and-gold wall trappings, or his unexpected appearance would have quickly turned unpleasant. Canis could only imagine the Count’s reaction to one of his beloved oil paintings smeared with peanut butter and the word PRICK in stark black charcoal.

             What he couldn’t imagine, though, was why the Count had come down, instead of summoning him to one of his many favorite locations to cow and intimidate up in the Palace proper. His grand, gilt-and-ebony study was his favorite place for brow-beating and the kind of biting threats nobles shuddered and refused to speak about, the foyer and throne room his preferred venue for grandstanding and public humiliation. Midday, the gym was empty, the animal-handling staff dispersed for peacock-feeding and big-cat-enrichment. And the Count had, even more uncharacteristically, left off his usual furs and medal-studded sash. Even his brilliant golden arm was unencumbered by its top layer of armored plating and sharp claws, which most servants never saw removed. The apparatus looked jarringly functional without them—still fabulously ornate, but more prosthesis than ornament. For the first time, Canis had the realization the Count had once been genuinely, permanently wounded, and the decoration was only secondary to that.

             The stripe of rust-red on his white silk lapel, though, was an equally-poignant reminder that just days ago, the Count had genuinely, permanently mutilated a Prefect with an ice pick for a small infraction of decorum, so he didn’t let the thought cross into anything like sympathy.

             “I did.” Hands on his hips, the Count watched him approach, waving him up before he got halfway through a bow. “You’re late.”

             “My apologies, my lord.” Glancing over his shoulder at the clock, Canis frowned, but didn’t protest. “I was helping my father in the stables. I must’ve lost track of time.”

             “Your father could handle the stables himself, a week ago,” the Count sneered. “Starting to slack off with the extra hands, or just getting old?”

             A muscle in Canis’ jaw twitched, but he didn’t bite. “I don’t know, my lord.”

             “Well, he’ll have to go back to doing his own work.” The Count dragged a wooden crate forward by one brass handle, the mesh door rattling a little from movement inside. “I have a project that requires your personal and complete attention.”

             Curiously, Canis tried to peek through the mesh to the rosewood interior, kneeling down on the padded floor.

             The Count nodded. “Go ahead.”

             He undid the latch on the brass-mesh door, and two long, skinny bundles of white fur rocketed out, one after another, chirping and squeaking like raspy little songbirds. One beelined into Canis’ lap, snuffling his hands and stomach with a stubby white snout, while the other skittered across the mats to the low, parquet-floor stage against the back wall, wriggling into the few inches of space underneath with a high-pitched whimper.

             With a squeal of delight, Canis ruffled the puppy’s wispy white fur while it squirmed enthusiastically in his hands, tiny slip of a tail waggling. “Oh, you are just the cutest—!” The puppy slobbered and nibbled at his fingers; one of its rose-ears, pricked and alert, was missing a chunk, like it had been torn or bitten off. “Oh, look at you. You’ve got a special ear.” He ruffled it, and the puppy yipped excitedly. When he looked up, the Count’s eyes were on him—unamused, but not as cold as he’d anticipated. “How, um—” Still wrangling the puppy in his lap, he straightened up. “How would you like them trained, my lord?”

             “For hunting.” The Count set the carrier aside, taking two small gold chains with matching engraved medallions from his pocket. “If you think you can handle that.”

             “Of course, Your Excellency. It would be my pleasure.” The puppy leaped at his face to lick it, and Canis giggled. “Down, down—have you given them names?”

             “He’s Melchior, and she’s—ugh.” Crossing to the stage where the other puppy still hid, the Count kicked the edge of the parquet with one polished black heel, the blow echoing under the stage. “Dammit—”

             “ _Don’t—_ ” Running over, Canis threw out a hand to stop him, accidentally brushing his arm before quickly recoiling. “I mean—” He caught himself, getting down on the floor to peer under the stage. “If she’s already afraid, my lord, scaring her won’t make her come out.” Under the low slab of wood, two mismatched pinpricks of eyeshine watched him tremblingly, the other puppy cowering against the wall. Canis sat up, beckoning. “Come here.”

             His trainer-habits had overshadowed his etiquette, but to his surprise, the Count complied, kneeling next to him on the dusty floor mats. Lying down on his side, Canis stretched out one arm underneath the stage, letting his hand fall open and relaxed on the cool marble floor. “Give her your hand.”

             “Me?”

             “They’re your dogs, my lord. They should know you first and foremost.”

             The idea of complying with any orders other than his own made Lucio’s skin crawl, but he ignored it, hearing the fearful whimpers of the puppy shivering under the stage. He lay down next to Canis, almost holding out his left hand before rolling hastily to the other side and reaching out with his right for the scared pup, craning his neck to see her in the gloom under the stage.

             “Don’t look at her,” Canis said softly, catching his eye to pull his gaze off the puppy. “Eye contact is scary for them—especially light-colored eyes.” He smiled, wincing a little. “Nothing personal, of course, my lord.”

             “...Of course.” Face pressed uncomfortably into his shoulder, Lucio did his best not to look under the stage, which gave him little choice but to keep his eyes on Canis’ face, to linger on the rosy glow of his cheeks, dusted with freckles, the fullness of his dark lashes over his so politely-averted eyes. His soft, sweet perfume cut through the smell of animal dander and hard rubber, warm, spicy cinnamon touched with honey like the perfect mulled wine. His fluffy dark hair was pulled back from the curve of his neck, wrapped in a plate-gold choker, and the shoulder of his crimson blouse was open, showing off more rosy freckles. His lips, full and flowing from a candy-coating of gloss, parted in a gentle whisper:  
             “Here she comes!”

             A tiny wet nose bumped Lucio’s fingers, snuffling into his palm.

             Slowly, Canis scooted out from under the stage. “Pet her, and if she responds, you should be okay to pick her up.”

             Scritching under the puppy’s wispy white chin, he waited for her to shrink away; when she didn’t, he got a hand under her belly and pulled her carefully into the light, holding her in his lap. “Took you long enough,” he told her without a trace of venom, scratching behind her tiny folded ears. “This is Mercedes.”

             “She’s beautiful,” Canis cooed, reaching over his arm to stroke her under the chin, close enough to feel the warmth of his bare shoulder. “And don’t worry, my lord. We’ll work that shy streak out of her.”

             “Mm. She is how she is.” Handing Mercedes off to him, Lucio caught Melchior before he tumbled off the edge of the stage, flipping him over to ruffle his chest. “If _you’re_ smart enough on your own, she might just get to be Daddy’s little girl.” Melchior nibbled his fingers and snorted.

             Canis held Mercedes securely against his chest, petting her in long, rhythmic strokes to keep her calm. Surreally, the Count was sitting on the floor, where nobles feared to tread, talking to a rescued puppy. Melchior reared back his little head and sneezed all over the Count’s golden hand and pristine white sleeve, and he only laughed, letting the puppy go to romp around on the mats and cleaning himself up with his bloodred pocket square. He got up, waving Canis off when he tried to follow suit, tucking the dirty cloth away and fixing his jacket. “Draw up a schedule for them. Feeding, training, all that. Get it to the chamberlain by the end of the day.”

             He never asked, only ordered, but these orders didn’t bite like they should have. Canis nodded, scooping up Melchior and carefully getting to his feet. “Yes, Your Excellency.”

             “They have their own room in my wing.” The Count took a step closer to fix the dogs’ golden collars in place, the smell of dragon’s blood throwing Canis back to an empty board room. _I could kiss you_. His stomach clenched, the Count’s voice silvery and moving farther away. “Look it over and tell the other staff if there’s anything else they’ll need.”

_Sweet thing_. Canis squirmed in spite of himself, under the guise of keeping the puppies settled in his arms. “Actually, my lord—” He cleared his throat. “It would be best for them to stay with you, when they can. In your room, or your study—so they can learn your scent.”

             In the doorway, the Count paused. “Look it over anyway.” He grinned, all canines and pale pewter eyes. “My room isn’t always the most welcoming to innocent little creatures.”

             Canis cursed his cheeks for getting hot, letting his breath out in a rush. “Yes, my lord.”

 -

             It was nearly noon, but still, as Canis made his way up the stairs, three separate handservants stopped him to grab his hand or his sleeve and warn him—whatever you do, do _not_ wake the Count. But it was nearly _noon_ , and he’d already searched every other corner of the Palace. Mercedes and Melchior were very behind schedule, and still young enough that routine was crucial to their training. So he crossed the line where the Palace walls changed from oil paintings and marble floors to long, gold-fringed red carpet runners and huge molded-bronze reliefs of battles with goat-headed victors, checking behind the darker carved-ebony doors one by one. Even with servants milling through, the corridor grew quieter and quieter as he came to the end, the thick, red-veined ebony door heavy with gilded roses and thorny carved vines, the knob a single chunk of red glass like a princess-cut ruby. At the threshold of the Count’s bedroom door, the hallway was deathly silent.

             Canis pressed one ear to the door, but the thick hardwood gave nothing away. He tried the knob, cold and oiled to perfect silence—it was unlocked. He let the door fall open a silver, keeping his hand tight around the glass, and listened, holding his breath. Inside the master suite, soft, even breathing echoed off the high, vaulted ceiling, accompanied by a duet of quiet snores that snorted off to a creaky yawn and loud sniffing. Canis stayed behind the door, looking back out into the hall. If the mere kinesthetic sense of being watched could wake a toothless old white tiger in her menagerie pen, he didn’t want to take the risk with the Count.

             “Mercedes! Melchior!” he stage-whispered, waggling his fingers inside the comital suite. With a _fuff_ and a straining of the mattress, two sets of paws dropped to the ground and pattered across the plush red carpet. The lanky yearling dogs squeezed through the crack in the door—first Mercedes, still a foot shorter than Melchior and too skinny for her paws, then Melchior, his special ear permanently pricked, lolling tongue leaving a streak of drool on Canis’ clean black pants. He made a face, pulling the door closed and easing the latch back into place before double-timing down the corridor so the dogs’ tails didn’t thump against the door. They kept pace with him on either side, Mercedes’ head bobbing from her eagerness to break into a run.

             When Canis stopped abruptly at the landing of the grand staircase, Melchior dropped into a playful bow and let out a high-pitched bark. Canis waited until they both sat quietly, tails wagging, watching him for instructions. “Good-good,” he cooed, ruffling them both behind the ears before starting down the stairs, the dogs keeping tight to his heels. “Were you cuddling with Papa? Did he let you sleep in? Spoiled babies.”

             The nobles and servants alike in passing gave him a wide berth, watching the dogs warily from the corners of their eyes or avoiding the sight of them altogether. As they approached the huge double doors to the Gardens, thrown wide to let in the summer sunshine, Melchior started to growl deep in his throat, thick white fur bristling on his too-broad shoulders. Mercedes perked, sniffed, and joined in, wrinkling her nose and showing her sharp white teeth.

             A nobleman climbed the stairs from the Gardens, thinning, firey-orange hair beginning to curl from the humidity. Compared to the rich jewel-tones inside the Palace, his chestnut-colored frock coat and celery-green ascot were drab, pallid, less remarkable even than the servants’ plain white. The Prefect of the Fourth District scowled in his direction, one arm loose by his side, the other held tight against his ribcage, hand disappearing under his beige waistcoat. Mercedes and Melchior darted a few steps forward, closing in front of Canis like two hackle-raised gates.

             Unfortunately, he made eye contact, so he had to bow, holding the front of his blouse so the low neckline didn’t show off his diamond nipple studs. “Good morning, my lord.”

             The Prefect sneered. “Does His Excellency _know_ you’ve taken his sight hounds? It’s a little early for him to be up and about.”

             With a placid smile, Canis made absolutely no move to call off the dogs. “His Excellency’s hounds have a different schedule than he does. As their trainer, it’s my responsibility to keep them to that schedule. And our Count has better things to do than micromanage the movements of every single one of his animals. My lord,” he added, air-kissing at the dogs. They retreated to his heels, but not before Melchior took a snap at the Prefect’s free hand.

             The Prefect flinched away, grimacing, and opened his mouth to retort when the pounding of feet and shattering of glass drew all eyes to the top of the grand staircase.

             A marble bust of a previous countess flew from the hallway to the east, crashing to the floor and cracking into several pieces. A flurry of scarves, magenta, purple, blue, and fluffy white hair leaped over the ruined bust and onto the railing overlooking the foyer; Asra only paused a moment to catch his breath and kick off his shoes before throwing himself at one of the foyer’s floor-to-ceiling tapestries, the gold fringe bouncing taut under his weight as he climbed.

             “You little _brat!_ ” The Count skidded around the corner in a black silk dressing-gown that was holding on for dear life, wild-eyed and red-faced. Panting, he raked his platinum-blonde hair from his eyes. His usual razor-edged under-eye markings were absent, one eggshell-pale cheek streaked with black much too thin to be liquid liner, but about the right viscosity for ordinary ink. “I’ll have your goddamned _eyes_ plucked out!” he shrieked, flinging the chunks of the broken bust at the escaping magician. The onlookers in the foyer ducked and ran as the marble whizzed past Asra and exploded on the stone walls, showering the foyer with chunks of white rock. With a roar, the Count pulled a short, pearl-encrusted dagger from a mount on the wall, felt its weight, and reared back to throw it.

             “Wait!” Dropping a silver tea service with a clatter, a servant with streaks of grey in their tight bun rushed forward, touching his arm. “Please, my lord—that’s one of the oldest relics in the Palace—”

             Grabbing their wrist, Lucio twisted the old servant’s arm back, down—and promptly threw them down the stairs. To the gasps and cries of the audience below, they tumbled down the gilt-marble steps in a ball of panicked limbs, hitting the brilliantly-jeweled mosaic on the foyer floor with a sickly crack. Lucio threw the dagger anyway, the blade finding purchase in the tapestry as Asra pulled himself off it, hanging in an open skylight stories about the seething Count just long enough to blow him a kiss before disappearing onto the roof.

             Amid the throng of servants leading away their fallen supervisor and nobles fleeing the foyer like ants under a magnifying glass, Canis took an unconscious step toward the stairs, the dogs mirroring at his sides. Flinging Asra’s shoes one by one through the skylight with vitriol, the Count wiped at the ink running down his face. The black silk robe, stitched and monogrammed in gold, neatly concealed the join of metal and skin on one shoulder while falling completely off the other, skin flushed with fury all the way down to his waist, years of battle-hardened muscle heaving from ragged, snarling breaths. Golden fingers flashed and locked around the throat of the first guard unfortunate enough to approach. “Bring him to me.”

             “Yes—my lord—”

             The guard staggered off, and Lucio lashed out at the stairs, ripping the crystal globe off a newel post with the splintering, twisting crack of breaking wood and hurling it through the gentle blue-and-lavender stained-glass landscape next to Asra’s escape tapestry, shattering the window with a savage howl.

             “Lucio!” The Countess’ heels clicked smartly on the marble, her tyrian hair streaming out behind her in a banner. Every pearl, every link of every pristine silver chain dripping from her wrists and neck and hair was in perfect order, every gauzy fold of skirts and sleeves draped elegantly over the layer beneath. She halted, one high-arched brow cocked, currant-red lips curled derisively at her disheveled husband. “Control yourself.”

             Like the flip of a switch, his back straightened, chin lifted, hard lines of a scowl smoothed out of his face, rabid gleam in his eye softening to a sparkle, teeth flashing in a winsome grin instead of bared in primal rage. “My darling Coun _tess_. Good morning.” His voice, uncolored by anger, made Mercedes and Melchior chuff and wiggle in excitement, two-stepping by Canis’ heels.

             “It’s noon.”

             His smile twitched. He was barefoot, she was in two or three inches of heels, and even from a story below, Canis could see him draw himself up to compensate. “Then I’ll assume your morning was miserable without me.”

             “I sobbed uncontrollably into my breakfast,” she retorted dryly, fixing the shoulder of his robe. In the split second between the belt falling loose and the Countess pulling the front closed, Canis, the only soul remaining in the foyer, quickly averted his eyes, turning on his heel and clicking at the dogs to take them to the gym.

             “Canis.” The minute he turned his back, the Count called over the banister. “Running off to train without me?”

             Swallowing, Canis spun back around. “Yes, my lord. I mean—” He sighed. “You’re welcome to join us, if it pleases Your Excellency.” Between the terms of address and expected attitudes, talking to nobility was exhausting enough. He was just thankful the Count’s robe was closed.

             “No, go on.” Eyes roving over the torn tapestry, broken window, and tiny spattering of blood at the base of the stairs, the Count let out a satisfied sigh, holding out his arm for the Countess to take, which she did with a flicker of an eye-roll. “I have a meeting—” His ink-stained fingers tightened over Nadia’s, and she gave him a sharp look. “I’ll join you after.”

 -

             “Roll over.” Pulling on her robe, Nadia swatted her husband’s bare ass with the ties. “You’re bleeding on my sheets.”

             “I’ll bleed where I want, after what your little magician did to me.” Muffled, his face pressed into the mattress, Lucio felt around one side of the bed for the kicked-away blankets. “Don’t like it, don’t hit so hard.”

             “I wouldn’t,” she replied, fluffing her pillows and sitting up expectantly, “but the taste of blood makes you _so_ —”

             “Don’t say savage.” He rolled his eyes, pushing up off the bed and running his tongue over his cut bottom lip, the metallic tang already watered down. “It makes you sound like such an aristocrat.” Flipping onto his back, he tossed the top sheet back onto the bed, plucking one of the pillows from her stack to prop himself up.

             Nadia scowled. “Barbaric.”

             “Not better.”

             Throwing the sheet over them, she curled up against his chest, dropping her deep violet hair over his face like a curtain. “I don’t care.”

             Shaking her hair out of his face, Lucio rummaged one-handed through bottle after bottle of white wine in the cupboard of the nightstand. “Don’t you keep anything drinkable stocked?”

             “Red wine stains. And gives me headaches.” Tangling her fingers in his hair, Nadia sighed. “Much like you.”

             He smirked, letting his head drop back against the pillows. “Darling, if you ever need me to ease your headaches, all you have to do is ask.”

             “I prefer when you do the crawling.” Her fingers tightened in his hair for a second, then released. “I’d rather you visited your more _savage_ —” He growled, but she ignored him. “—moods on souls tragically inclined to enjoy them.” Nadia yawned. “I’ll start stocking red wine when you start cleaning up after yourself. I dislike so much maintenance after sex.”

             “I’m your husband. If anyone’s worth the maintenance, it should be me.” Running the tips of his nails down her back, Lucio closed his eyes. “If it really bothers you, I can call for the Consul. He’ll make your sheets like new.”

             “You’re disgusting.” Trailing a hand down his chest, Nadia made a face.

             “Mm. You have ten minutes before I go back to my room. Enjoy them.”

             “That long?”

             “Ugh.” Rolling out from under her, Lucio tossed the heap of blankets back on the bed, uncovering his clothes. “Always a pleasure.”

             She smirked, leaning back on her mountain of pillows. “You were adequate, I suppose.”

             “ _A_ dequate?” He scoffed, leaning back on the bed to tug on his high leather boots. “I can find a dozen people in the Palace alone who would _beg_ for a ‘meeting’ like that.”

             Stretching back against the headboard, she laughed. “V—”

             “I know Valerius doesn’t count,” he snapped. “Valerius wouldn’t dream of hitting me back, let along pegging me within an inch of my life.”

             “Oh, Lucio, you flatterer.”

             Snatching a green silk throw pillow of the fainting couch by her window, he threw it at her.

             Nadia batted it aside, rolling her eyes. “A dozen, hmm?”

             “At least.”

             “Does that include the dog trainer?”

             Lucio twitched, almost yanking a button off his deep red jacket. “Petty, and seafoam. Both bad colors on you, Noddy.”

             “Don’t be a bitch.” Watching him dress, she smoothed her blankets back in place. “He’s very pretty.”

             He snorted. “He’s eighteen.”

             “Oh, my.” Uncorking a bottle from her nightstand, Nadia leaned over to pour sparkling, light wine into a waiting crystal glass. “Young enough to be your son.”

             His jaw dropped, hands freezing over his medals for a moment before he recovered. “...More like your _grand_ son.”

             “Ugh.” Without looking, she threw the pillow back at him, taking a long sip of wine. “Don’t you have to go be unreasonably cruel to someone who doesn’t deserve it?”

             With a flourish, he threw his mantle over his shoulder. “Not until four.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

            Canis giggled, kicking playfully as the Count ported him through the east wing in a fireman’s carry. The ornate, golden-rose door slammed shut behind them, and Lucio threw him onto the bed, leaving a trail of cast-off fur, red silk, and gold jewelry on the carpet and kissing down his chest through the loose, gauzy ivory of his blouse. Teasingly, Canis pushed him away, curling up on the pillows. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you leave your own party so early. People will talk.”

            “Let ‘em.” Throwing his boots into the closet, he pulled Canis into his lap, tracing light patterns down his back. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

            “You have _not_.” Canis tugged at the buttons of his jacket, kissing under his jaw. “Someone other than yourself?”

            “I’m as surprised as you are.” With one good yank, Lucio undid the ribbon holding his top together, teasing one nipple wreathed in tiny golden roses with his thumb. “And probably more disgusted.”

            Canis shivered, pressing into his hand. “And what were you thinking of doing to me, my lord?” he asked, knowing exactly what he’d get back:

            “Don’t call me that.”

            He laughed, falling back on the pillows and unwrapping the beaded scarves from his hips. “I can’t believe it gets you off hearing your own first name.”

            “Gets me—” Lucio paused, shrugging off his waistcoat and shirt. “Is that what you think it is?”

            Propping up on his elbows, Canis frowned. “Is that not it?”

            “Of course not. How conceited do you think I am?” Pinning him to the bed with a kiss, he muttered, “Don’t answer that.”

            “Then what is it?” Feeling up his chest, Canis threw an arm around his neck, pulling him close.

            “For one, it’s clunky,” he admitted. “For another, I know you’re not only fucking me because I’m the Count, so why make it sound that way?”

            “Are you sure?” Canis cocked an eyebrow. “It’s _very_ hard for me to remember not to use your title. I slip up every time,” he added, batting his lashes.

            “Right.” Lucio snorted, nipping at his collarbone. “Because if I didn’t sign your checks, you’d never give me a second look.”

            “You _don’t_ sign my checks,” Canis countered. “In fact, I sign yours.”

            Lucio gave him a blank look.

            “Taxes?”

            He frowned. “Believe it or not, this isn’t what I wanted to do tonight.”

            Canis rolled his eyes. “Oh, fine.” He let his arms fall open wide, arching up dramatically from the bed. “Ravish me, Your Excellency.”

            “Stop that.”

            He giggled, catching and kissing his hand. “You’re so high-maintenance. Just fuck me.”

 

            Sitting up, bundled in a huge white fur blanket, Canis blew on his tea, watching Lucio’s silhouette in the dark. There was something uneven about his gait, and when he rolled back into bed, Canis heard his breath catch. “Are you alright?”

            “You mean did you wear me out?” With a soft, dull popping sound from deep in his shoulder, Lucio shifted on the pillows, favoring his left side. “Not yet, but we can try again.”

            “I can _hear_ it cracking,” Canis objected, scooting closer to him and reaching for his back. “Does it hurt?”

            “It’s not my back.” Lucio waved him off clumsily, his metal hand shuddering involuntarily. “Don’t worry about it.”

            Canis was quiet for a minute, then set his tea aside and snuggled up to him, draping the thick fur blanket over them both. “Can you take it off, or is it—”

            “No, I can.” The muscles of his chest were wound tight, flinching from the effort of keeping the full weight of metal from settling onto his shoulder.

            “Do you?”

            “…Not often.” He winced.

            Canis laid a hand over his heart, fingertips brushing the lip of metal where it met the skin. “Maybe your shoulder needs a break.”

            Lucio was quiet. Canis felt his heartbeat pick up slightly, and the set of his jaw tighten. For a long minute, he steeled himself for anything from a jab to a full-on tantrum—then Lucio sat up, slowly, leaning off the bed and reaching over Canis to undo an invisible catch, and the gleaming golden prosthesis slid onto the nightstand, as he mumbled, “It’s not pretty, but…” Quickly, he pulled the ruby-red sheet up, back, and around, hiding away the sore, pressure-lined skin underneath.

            Still pressed into his chest, Canis reached up to stroke the hair away from his face, still tousled from their liaison. “Can I see?”

            His face was unreadable in the dark, avoiding Canis’ eyes. “I don’t usually say yes to that.”

            Softly, Canis kissed his cheek. “But?”

            With a heavy sigh, Lucio pulled the sheet down, looking away from the stump of his left arm, a few shades paler than the rest of him, with the lines from the inner workings of the gold replacement imprinted into the weak, sallow surface. The end of it came together in a near-perfect X of surgical lines, clean white ridges of scar tissue closed up a few inches above the elbow. Around the outside, a long, jagged scar traced up from the surgical wounds, tapering away to a pencil-thin point almost at the crest of his shoulder, a deep, puckered memorial of a battle scar.

            Canis took it in, holding back the twisting feeling in his stomach from showing in his face, then lay back down, cuddling up in the soft white fur.

            “You never asked me what happened.” Lucio’s voice was barely a whisper, almost lost in the shifting of the sheet draping over his stump again.

            Canis kissed his chest, feeling his anxious, shallow breathing slow. “Do you want to tell me?”

            “It’s not pretty, either.”

            “Contrary to what you might think,” he teased, closing his eyes, “everything doesn’t have to be pretty.”

            “Mm, I don’t believe that.” Lucio kissed the side of his head. “Especially not coming from you.”

            Canis mock-gasped. “That was a compliment.” He peeked up, eyes wide. “Is it your arm that makes you bitter? Are you secretly sweet without it?”

            “I’m not bitter.” Rolling his eyes, Lucio flipped him onto his back, attacking the dark red bruises peppering his neck and chest with kisses just hard enough to tickle. “I’m cruel.”

            Squealing, Canis shoved him away. “You are not.” He thought about it. “Not to me, at least.”

            “No?” Dropping back onto the pillows, Lucio smirked. “Because you won’t be sitting down for a while.”

            “I asked for that,” Canis objected. “You were very obliging.”

            “Anything for you, my sweet.” With a sigh, he pulled Canis close, swaddled in the rich white fur, and gently ran fingers through his hair. “You know that.”

            Canis let out a hum, eyes lingering on the tossed-aside prosthesis. “Why?”

            “Hm?”

            Looking up at him, searching his faraway silver eyes, Canis took a deep breath of the dragon’s blood smoke and metal tang that lingered on the sheets, his skin, his hair long after he left the east wing and made him see red and gold even curled around his pillow at home. “Why are you so…soft…with me?”

            His hand cupped the back of Canis’ neck firmly, possessively, and Lucio was quiet again, for a long time, biting his lip and reaching, grasping for a word or two or three that never came, or at least never came out. “I…don’t know.”

 

            He wasn’t in love. He’d never been in love, not really, and it wasn’t the kind of thing he had time for. But it was nice to be challenged, not attacked, not undermined, not derided, but softly and sweetly challenged, to have his blade catch on something that pushed back, that said, I can take this. Whether you meant it or not, I can take this. If you can be tender, I can take this. If you can be soft, you can be sharp, too, and I’ll still be here. It was maddening, magnetic, irresistible—he’d have sold what remained of his soul to keep it.

            And the goddamned doctor had taken it.

            That cowardly, gangly, saccharine charlatan whose tongue was sharper than his scalpel, impotent as his quack medicines, had swept in like a skeletal black cuckoo and stolen it all away. Those teasing golden eyes, hidden behind pink glass, never so much as wandered his way, not anymore, drawn as they were to the doctor and his rickety cart of horrors. He hated that they’d abandoned him, hated that he coughed up more blood than he needed to sometimes just to remember the feel of the hands under the petal-pink gloves that caught him. He hated that he was trapped on his back in a pool of sweat and blood, and hated that he still wanted to be seen, wafer-thin and brittle-boned, with the damned doctor vibrant and vital and breathing without rattling just a few feet away. That he couldn’t manage a biting retort or a caustic curse because the loss of soft, freckled skin and gold-polished fingernails in his hair had compromised him so he could only watch their masked, gowned, gloved pas de deux in silent fury. Look at me, not him. Look at me, not him. Look at me.

            He wasn’t sure when it happened. The days all ran together since he never really slept more than an hour or two at a time. Jules took his arm away, without even asking, ripped it away like a wild dog, leaving the horrid scar purple and puckered in the open air, and it took four? five needle sticks before his other arm would give up a drop of blood, screaming and thrashing and trying to claw with the hand he didn’t have. Canis’ eyes were finally on him, his face, not the collapsing, seeping mess of veins or the black ooze he coughed onto the blankets, but they hurt, too. They were the wrong color behind the pink lenses, contorted in an ugly mask of pity.

            Poor little Monty.

            They lingered for a second, two seconds, and he stopped shivering for the first time in weeks—then they looked right back to the goddamned doctor.

            He lunged for the pink-and-gold beak. He caught it. He let the weight of his exhaustion drag him back down, mask in hand. Canis gasped—for a moment, another human being, breathing the same air. For a moment, brilliant golden eyes and delicate lashes, cheeks kissed with freckles and flushed red from fear.

            In a flash, he had a new mask, white and red and too big. Jules ran to the door like a marionette, surgical cloth clamped over his nose and mouth. Pink-and-gold tumbled to the floor. Exhaustion dragged him further down, into blackness.

            “Ilya—I’m sorry—”

            “It’s okay—you’ll be okay. Go scrub. I’ve got you.”

            “I can’t believe—”

            “He's a bastard, Canis. It's not your fault.”

 


End file.
